by Rebecca Bryn
How many tramped past in the night? Three thousand… more? The chimneys that had belched flame all day smoked blackly. By morning the uneconomic to feed, the old, the sick, the lame, the anxious mothers and the little children would be gone: ash to float on the air, to fertilize the fields and make the paths upon which they all walked… ash to leach into the waters of the Vistula, fat to make the soap.
‘Mama, mama,’ a little boy cried as he looked back helplessly for something he’d let fall. Mama… Mama…. Sometimes, they said, the Nazis used too little gas and it didn’t quite kill them. Sometimes, they said, the cries could be heard from the flames.
He turned away and vomited. When he looked back all that was left of their passing was a child’s toy.
The bed bounced beside him. The teddy bear came back into focus. ‘Grandpa, why are you cuddling Teddy Edward?’ A mass of blond curls framed a pale smile.
He took Charlotte in his arms and buried his face in her hair, his fingers digging into the toy bear. ‘Sometimes Grandpas need a cuddle too, little one.’
***
Jane glanced at Walt as she set the table for supper. Neither had mentioned his restless night. He had the twins rapt with a story, weaving his magic: sometimes only they brought him out of the long silences she’d learned to accept. What had happened to hurt him so deeply? If only he’d talk about the past and his family.
He’d mentioned his mother only once since she’d known him, soon after Jennie was born: he said Jennie had his mother’s mouth. She’d probed gently, discovered she was the daughter of an Irish immigrant who’d made good in Liverpool, and then he’d clammed up: he wouldn’t talk about his father at all, but something he’d said made her think he was a Northamptonshire man. Walt had come to Kettering after his demob, looking for work. She’d met him when he was doing repairs to the Methodist Chapel she attended. She smiled wryly; she’d never persuaded him to go to the services.
The war wasn’t the only conflict that scarred Walt: a hinted at family feud, bitter enough to survive two wars, locked him deep in his own mind. If only he’d open up to her… old wounds didn’t heal wrapped in anger. Did he think he spared her feelings? Dreaming, he often muttered under his breath and occasionally she caught a name.
She sighed. If he’d forgotten the night terror that woke him it was for the best. She perched on the edge of the sofa to watch the television news but Walt drew her in, describing the forest with an expansive gesture.
‘Outside the open window a wolf waited. One paw raised he tasted the air. Chickens… and something else. Wselfwulf sniffed again. The scent was children, small tasty children, the woodcutter’s children. He crouched on his belly waiting for the door to open and the woodcutter’s day to begin.’
‘Wselfwulf got up early?’
‘Very early, before it was light. He didn’t have to wait long before the two little girls tumbled out of the door and ran across the garden to feed the chickens. He followed, crawling on his belly through the shadows.’ Walt’s hands padded softly and slowly across the table. ‘And when Wselfwulf was almost close enough to touch… he jumped.’
Lucy jumped as well.
‘If these girls don’t have nightmares…’
Charlotte brushed her concern aside. ‘The story, Grandpa.’
‘Wselfwulf jumped and grabbed one little girl in his jaws. The woodcutter charged at the wolf waving his axe. Let her go. But the wolf held tight and the woodcutter daren’t throw the axe for fear of hitting his daughter. Please, begged the woodcutter, I will give you anything, but don’t hurt my daughter. Wselfwulf looked at him thoughtfully and opened his jaws, holding the girl captive with a huge paw. Anything? You have gold? The wolf liked shiny gold to decorate his lair. He could eat the little girl another day. No, I don’t have gold, the woodcutter said. The wolf licked his lips and growled deep in his throat. Then I need food, and I have a taste for little girls not chickens. You killed my father. Give me one of your daughters and the debt will be paid… a life for a life. Your other daughter will be safe. Which one would you like me to…?’
Walt’s hands froze mid-gesture.
She looked where he was looking. She caught part of what the presenter said. …had considered ordering a raid on a Brazilian farmhouse. It is believed that he may still be alive, and living in Brazil or Paraguay. Extradition… She glanced back at Walt. His lips moved soundlessly. She’d spent years lying awake in the half-light while he dreamed, listening to, and calming, his murmurings. She knew the shape of that word… that name. She looked back at the television screen, heart hammering. Dear Lord, could that be the man who haunted Walt’s nightmares?
Chapter Five
On June 4th 1944 Rome had fallen to the allies and, within days, news spread across the camp. Whispers of resistance grew louder.
The infirmary door stood open, letting out the humid stench of the interior. Miriam’s figure was silhouetted in the doorway. She turned. ‘The Red Cross are here, doctor.’
He joined her in the doorway. Vehicles bearing the insignia of the International Red Cross and the Danish Red Cross rumbled through the camp.
Miriam shaded her eyes. ‘Where are they going?’
‘The Theresienstadt Familienlager.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘Better rations… I knew it was a sham.’
Miriam’s thin shoulders slumped. ‘And if the officials make a good report we may not get any more Red Cross parcels.’
‘This is why they haven’t punished the Roma. They’re waiting until after the Red Cross visit.’
‘It didn’t stop them killing those brave young Greeks yesterday.’
‘They were only a few… and they rebelled.’
‘The Jews of Hungary will be forever in their debt. They chose not to gas Jews.’ Miriam lowered her voice. ‘Is it true the British and Americans have invaded France?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Someone, somewhere.’
He smiled. Lives depended on secrecy. ‘News of the war is suppressed, but something is making high-command nervous. You’ve heard Rome has fallen to the Allies?’
She nodded. ‘A Jew from Poland spoke of the Polish Resistance… the Home Army, gathering momentum in Warsaw.’
‘And the two Slovaks who escaped in April… they got through.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The SS would never admit to it but it was broadcast on Swiss radio, apparently. The world knows what’s happening here, Miriam. And there’s more.’ He glanced from side to side. ‘According to my source the Soviets are in Eastern Belorussia, pushing towards Warsaw.’
‘Resistance inside the camp is building. Do you think we dare hope, doctor?’
***
July, the Red Cross visit over, and life returned to horrific normality. Hope ebbed as the remaining men, women and children of Theresienstadt were marched to the gas chambers. Worry grew again for the Roma and Sinti: the fit and able, the younger men, as the guard had predicted, had been transported to other work camps.
As Miriam feared, the vital Red Cross parcels stopped arriving. So did the transports of Hungarian Jews. News filtered through courtesy of the camp radio, a set built from parts organised from Kanada, the barracks where the belongings of the gassed and imprisoned were sorted and sent back to the Fatherland. He’d discovered the radio’s existence from a delirious typhus sufferer in the isolation camp though he didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, where it was hidden.
News from Europe spread across the camp by word of mouth in urgent whispers. The Soviets liberated Vilnius, capital of Lithuania, and ten days later, Majdanek concentration camp near Lublin, east of the camp. Allied forces had broken out of the beach-heads of Normandy. Hope took wing again and hovered on an uneasy breeze.
July gave way to August. Hot sun baked the earth by day and steamed it by night. Not a blade of grass grew, not a bird sang. Water became scarcer than ever. Women on the infirmary bunks moaned, sleepless with claustrophobic heat: Miriam wiped swe
at from her face and neck with a cloth, and then fanned her face.
He motioned her outside. Daylight leached from the sky, stars shone pale and a full moon hung in the heavens. The air from the surrounding swamp still sweated with the heat of day, forming banks of steaming fog. He passed her a bottle with a little water in it.
She sank to the ground and savoured the water. ‘I don’t know if it’s true. I heard the Polish Home Army has risen up against the Germans.’
He squatted beside her. ‘When?’
‘It’s happening now.’
‘The Soviets have reached Warsaw?’ He calmed his voice. ‘That’s still almost two hundred miles away, even if they don’t have to fight every inch of the way.’
‘But if we can hang on… the resistance…’ Miriam flushed.
‘It’s all right. I know about the resistance.’
Lights flashed across the camp near the command centre. He strained to see across the tracks. Headlights strobed behind the rows of barracks, dust rose in clouds from wheels and a quiet growl joined the low moans. The vehicles reached the junction and went on in the direction of the gas chambers. The lights slowed and drew to a halt near the gates of the Gypsy compound.
‘The Roma… They’ve come for the Roma!’ He ran towards the compound gate, shouting. The guard on the gate held his rifle poised to shoot.
‘Nicht schießen! Es ist der Arzt.’
The guard lowered his rifle. ‘Oh, it’s you, doctor.’
‘Let me out. I need to go to the gypsy camp. I have patients there.’
The guard laughed.
‘I found twins in the Roma compound. I have to get them out. You’ll answer to the Camp Physician if they’re gassed.’
The guard’s face paled. He opened the gate and let him through. ‘I’ll escort you.’ He shouted to a colleague to stand watch, and ran to catch up.
The gates to the gypsy camp stood open. The barracks were in darkness, each building locked from the outside, the internees confined, trapped. Vehicles drove through the gates and down the main track, stopping outside the barrack blocks. He could almost feel the held breaths of the wretches inside. The door to the orphan’s block was thrown open and guards dragged out the children.
The children kicked, screamed and bit. ‘Murderers, bastards…’
They were thrown into trucks and carted away. Next, the door of the children’s infirmary was unbarred. He watched each child being carried out, some on stretchers. He searched each face, knowing he couldn’t save them. Only the twins stood a chance, if they both still lived.
He pointed to a small boy who was kicking his captor’s shins. ‘This one.’
The guard jabbered to the SS officer who eyed him mistrustfully.
‘And this one.’
He grabbed both children by their collars and stood them side by side, glaring at the officer. ‘Identical twins. Your life won’t be worth living if the Haupsturmführer hears you’ve gassed these two.’
The officer shone his torch in their faces. He smiled. ‘They hid these well. Take them. Be sure to tell him it was me who found them for you.’
He clutched both boys by the hand and marched them out of the gate, accompanied by his guard.
He spoke with calm authority. ‘It’s late to disturb the doctor. I’ll take them to the women’s infirmary tonight and deliver them in the morning.’
Behind him, the wails of Roma and Sinti women, and the cries of their children, rose as block after block was opened and emptied. He clutched the twins’ hands harder. In the morning a different guard would be on duty outside the women’s compound. He heard the trucks turn towards the gas chambers, but he didn’t look back.
The boys asleep at last in one of the nurses’ bunks he went outside. Stars shone in gaps between cloud and smoke. Flames shot from the chimneys, the smell of gasoline wafted across the camp, and the stench of burning flesh and the screams of the dying rose from open pits at the side of the crematoria. He closed his eyes and clamped his hands over his ears. How would Arturas and Peti ever forgive God for allowing this?
***
‘Fünf, zehn, fünfzehn, zwanzig…’
Zählappell: the count began again. One short. How could they be one short? He’d been meticulous in his record keeping. He went through his calculations again. Thirty-one had died in the night, three had been discharged to a work party. Ten had been moved to other compounds. That should leave…
The SS officer’s face was a rigid, neutral mask. ‘You are one short, doctor. This person must be found. Your patients will stand here until the number is correct.’
Stand was hardly the word. Most could barely hold themselves upright.
The officer waved guards forward. ‘Search the barrack.’
The women glanced from one to the other and drew themselves straighter. They were almost all mothers and almost all had lost their children: they’d taken the two little Roma orphans to their hearts.
He gestured to Miriam to stay where she was and followed the guards into the infirmary. It could be some poor wretch had died unnoticed beneath their blanket, or had crept beneath a bunk to hide, or had somehow found a way out and escaped in the night. Escape was not tolerated: escapees would be hunted down and shot. Bunks were pulled apart, straw sacking and blankets thrown to the floor, cracks and gaps between them prodded and poked.
He held his breath, as he knew the women outside held theirs. Bayonets thrust into straw mattresses, ripping open the covers. The guards pulled a heavy tier of bunks onto its side and stamped out.
‘You are still one short, doctor.’
‘Someone must have been moved without my knowledge. I shall have to check all the numbers to see who is missing.’
‘Do it. The women stand here, without food or water, until this prisoner is accounted for.’
‘I shall see to it, personally.’
The sun burned down. The tattooed numbers were checked and double-checked against the records. A woman fainted: the officer kicked her until she revived. One of them was missing and it could take hours to check the entire camp’s records to find where she’d been sent. Another body hit the ground, unconscious. He ached to go to the woman’s aid. He ached to check Arturas and Peti were safe, well-hidden and quiet. Instead he hurried from the compound in search of camp records and the elusive number.
The sun was setting by the time he’d found the missing woman. The SS officer had transferred her to Kanada, and not informed him. The weary women were allowed back to their bunks, tired, sunburned and dehydrated.
With their help he put the bunks straight and replaced the straw mattresses, feeling each one carefully. ‘This one.’
Willing hands peeled back the mattress cover. A small body hunched inside it. He felt for a pulse and eyes of different colours opened blearily. Miriam hugged Peti to her heart and then searched feverishly among the ruined mattresses. ‘Arturas?’
‘He’s here… He’s alive. The bayonets missed him.’
Low sighs broke out among the women: in turn they hugged their adopted sons.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I want Mama.’
Several women brought crusts of bread from beneath clothing. Pieces were broken off.
‘Here, eat this.’
‘You both kept so quiet.’
‘Mama will be very proud of you.’
***
Walt popped his head into the workshop next-door to his at the end of the garden they shared with their neighbours, Lil and Flo. Lil, long past retirement age, worked the foot pedal of her sewing-machine and mauve taffeta flew beneath nimble fingers. Her sister, Flo, pulled a pin from her mouth and adjusted a hem.
‘Ouch!’
‘Keep still, then, Charlotte. Don’t wriggle,’ Jane said. ‘Let Flo pin the hem.’
Lucy headed for the door. ‘I’m going with Grandpa.’
‘Oh, no you’re not.’ Flo removed pins from between her lips. ‘You’re next. You do want a party frock, don’t you?’ Pa
le blue taffeta, sewn with sequins, was bullied to length while its mauve sister flounced over Lil’s sewing machine. ‘That’s you done. Slip it off and mind the pins.’
Charlotte pouted. ‘Don’t look, Grandpa.’
‘All right, I’m going. I didn’t realise you were so grown up.’ He smiled and returned to his workshop. Charlotte and Lucy’s birthdays were to be marked by a fancy dress party and he’d promised a treasure hunt. An extra shadow darkened his workshop floor. ‘No you don’t, Lucy.’ He turned her round and shooed her back to Jane. ‘You can’t see. It’ll spoil the surprise. Go away.’
Safely locked inside, he considered the large dolls’ houses under construction. They were copies of the terrace in which they lived, right down to the entry door, chimney stacks and sash windows, and he’d made two houses joined together so Charlotte and Lucy’s tiny dolls could be neighbours. Jennie and Jane spent hours sewing soft furnishings and dolls’ clothes with minute stitches. At night, when the twins were in bed, Jane helped him paint and wallpaper the little rooms. All that was needed now was for him to finish the wiring and test the lighting circuit.
He looked at their achievement with deep satisfaction. He’d spent many happy years in this terrace. Guilt, as ever, tarnished that happiness: he’d promise Miriam a little house in England, with roses in the garden. He’d never even laid flowers on her grave. He reached for the book hidden beneath the sandpaper and opened it at a random page. Szvetlana egy idióta. Ő leejtette Pinkly at Zählappell. Azok az elkobzott minden javainkat. Miriam dragged him back to the place he could never truly escape.
‘Svetlana is an idiot… she dropped her pinkly at Zählappell.’
‘Pinkly?’
Miriam looked at him as if he were an idiot too. ‘Everything we own, all we have striven and traded for… our rations. Where do you think we keep them to stop them from being stolen?’
‘You keep them with you.’
‘In a pinkly. I tore a piece from my dress to make mine. I kept it pinned beneath my dress. I had a bread ration… a piece of soap… a spare safety pin… the bowl and spoon you gave me… candy from Kanada for Peti and Arturas.’